


I've Always Hated Red Roses

by DeathStarryNight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst in the second, Ben is not a tattoo artist, F/M, Happy Ending, Rey is a florist, Rose owns a donut shop, Smut is in the first part, Some angst, Strangers to Lovers, just FYI, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 06:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16300235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathStarryNight/pseuds/DeathStarryNight
Summary: Rey is a florist in New York.  One day, Ben comes into her shop with an unusual request and things spiral from there.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this post: https://funsubstance.com/fun/436124/the-language-of-flowers/
> 
> I used this website for the flower meanings: http://thelanguageofflowers.com/
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about flowers or flower shops or wedding planning, in case that wasn't abundantly clear. Hope you enjoy!

The sun shines through the worn panes and into the shop.  It’s purposely cozy and much warmer than the winter wind blowing outside.  The dead leaves of New York scatter before the errant breezes that chase chills down their necks as surely as they do mine.  But I am safe and secure in my own little greenhouse, jammed beneath floors of apartments above me. 

It’s still early as I spritz the flowers lining every surface.  A few people stopped in early before work to pick up bunches ordered the day before for anniversaries or birthdays or celebrations.  My delivery guy, Finn, is out on a few more deliveries for the morning.  This afternoon, we’ll have to start prepping for the wedding this weekend.

I’ve finished my tasks for the morning and taken my usual seat behind the counter, book in hand.  The rush of cold wind alerts me to the door opening. Before I can finish my paragraph and close my book, a hand slaps $20 down on the counter. 

I can’t say working the flower shop is a walk in the park, but it’s not the usual retail job.  For instance, I set my own hours since I own the place.  And I can kick out anyone who’s too rude.  The people who usually come into the shop are happy, celebrating something.  I raise my eyes and eyebrows at the man standing on the other side of the counter.  He’s young, maybe thirty, and dressed in a t-shirt and leather jacket, both black and completely unseasonable.  I open my mouth to ask if I can help him or ask him to leave, I’m not sure, but he speaks first.

“How do I say, ‘fuck you’ in a flower?” he asks.  He’s breathing hard, his cheeks flushed from cold or maybe anger, given what he just said to me. 

“Excuse me?”  I’ve never had a request like this.  More often silent love declarations that aren’t so obvious as roses.  But this?

“How do I say, ‘fuck you’ in a flower?” he repeats, slower, like I didn’t hear him the first time.  “Passive aggressively,” he adds.

“Yeah, I heard you, I just wasn’t sure you meant to say that.”  I close my book and hop down from my stool.  The shop has a decent array of flowers on display, more in the back.  I disappear into the small area shielded from the public and come back with a few less common flowers to add to the arrangement.  “I’m not sure there’s a single flower for that.  An arrangement would be better.”

“Fine,” he huffs out, his eyes following my progress around the shop.  “That’s fine.”

I come back with a nice bouquet of flowers.  It looks pretty, all of my bouquets do.  I wouldn’t put together an ugly one unless a customer specially asked and he hasn’t exactly, although I suppose a wilted and mismatched bouquet would say ‘fuck you’ more obviously.  It’s mostly in yellows and oranges, which adds to my dislike.  I prefer cooler colors myself.

“How’s that?” I ask him.

He squints at it like he’s not sure it actually conveys the correct sentiment.  “Do they all have meanings or something?”

“Yes, actually,” I say and walk back behind the counter, placing the bouquet in one of the stands I keep there for that purpose.  “Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, yellow carnations for disappointment, and orange lilies for hatred.  Properly full of loathing.”

He’s calmed down a bit and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth just a little.  “You really have flowers that mean all that?”

“I really do,” I say.  “They’re pretty too.  I don’t usually tell my customers that geraniums mean stupidity.”

He laughs, and I note the way it lights up his whole face.  The bill he slapped down onto the counter is still there.  Normally, a bouquet like this would cost more than that, but it’s not much and I’m doing a wedding this weekend anyway.  Plus, he seems like he’s had a bad day.  So, I take the $20 and package up his passive aggressive bouquet.

“I hope this conveys the proper amount of ‘fuck you,’” I tell him, even though I’m not sure what that is.  “In the most understated way possible.”

He grins over his new, passive aggressive flowers, his shoulders relaxed now.  Whatever his situation, picking out flowers that illustrate hatred seems to have helped him work off the frustration.  “Thanks,” he says and glances down at my nametag.  “Rey.”

The winter wind blows him back out onto the street with an absurdly bright bouquet and I wish him well.  Maybe a few flowers were all he needed to feel better. 

 

 

I’m in the back of the shop, seeing to some flowers for yet another wedding this weekend, when I hear the bells over the shop door go off.  “Hello?” a man calls from the front.  I quickly wipe my hands on my apron and hurry out, my apology already coloring my tongue.  A grin spreads across my face when I see who it is.

“Another bouquet for ‘fuck you’?” I ask him.

He winces.  “Not quite so strong.  More…I’m angry and frustrated and please leave me alone for a while.  But it has to look nice.”  He has another $20 on the counter.

“Well, let’s see what I can do.  ‘Please leave me alone’ is a little difficult to say with flowers, but I’ll try.”  I gather flowers from around the shop, this time explaining them as I go.  “Hmm.  I think Petunias for anger and resentment, certainly.  Just a few of those in right now.  Some Hydrangea too for heartlessness.  And larkspur for fickleness.  How’s that?”

Honestly, I’m pretty proud of how well I’ve put such different things together.  The bouquet actually looks nice.  He squints at it the same way he did last time.  “Perfect.  Thanks.”

“I hope these aren’t all for a girlfriend.  That must be a rocky relationship,” I comment as I step back behind the counter.  Good god, did I really just say that?  “Sorry, that was rude.  It’s just that I usually see people getting flowers for anniversaries or birthdays or the like.”

But he laughs.  “No, not for a girlfriend.”  I’m embarrassed that I notice he didn’t say that there was _no_ girlfriend.  What should I care?  I accept $20 for the bouquet again and he leaves with another bouquet of confusing messages.  I wonder why he’s so angry and why he’s decided that flowers are the best way to communicate this.

Not that it’s any of my business.

 

 

Snow falls thick and heavy outside.  Thanksgiving passed in a blur of weddings and strange autumnal arrangements that I enjoy making every year.  But now I have at least two weddings every weekend clear through Christmas and all of them want poinsettias and mistletoe and holly and all sorts of festive things.  I’m surrounded by festive coloration and even some evergreen in spread among my usual colorful blooms.  Some people do still come in seeking roses.  But the guy with the angry bouquets has not been in for weeks.

That thought shouldn’t upset me.  Maybe he’s found a way to not be so angry anymore.

Except then he steps through the door.  I can’t help but smile as soon as I see him.  Good god, Rey.  I don’t even know his name.  He stands in front of me, looking a little sheepish, and scratches the back of his neck.

“Another angry bouquet?” I ask.

He laughs a little.  “Actually, I need it to say I’m sorry.  Really sorry.”

“I don’t wonder after all the bouquets you’ve been sending.”  Maybe I should think more before I speak, but he laughs again, louder this time.  It’s a nice sound.  “Let’s see…striped carnations.  Oh, and hyacinths.  We’ll throw in some white sprigs of ivy for good measure.  How’s that?”

“Lovely.  And much nicer this time.  How do you have so many flowers in the dead of winter?  I never see these around,” he touches one of the petals with a delicate finger.

“I have my sources.”  I wink to add to the mystery.

“Fair enough.”

I want to ask him more, like why he’s always here in the middle of the day when everyone else is working.  Or what he needs to be so sorry for.  But it’s none of my business.  He’s just here for flowers.

“Do you want a card or anything?”  I gesture to a rack where I have a selection of small cards that can be added to the bouquet.  His brows knit together, and he selects one after a long minute of silence.  I hand over a nice pen for him to write the message.  He does so in a curling, beautiful script that surprises me.  I glance down to where he’s signed the card.  “So…Ben, huh?”

He colors a little.  “Yeah.”

I stick my hand out over the counter.  “I’m Rey.”

His hand is warm where it envelopes mine.  “Nice to meet you, Rey.”

“I’m sure whoever this is for will get that you’re really sorry,” I tell him as I take his usual $20.  “I mean, it’s a sentiment usually conveyed better in flowers than ‘fuck you’.”

He laughs at that and wishes me a belated Happy Thanksgiving on his way out.

 

 

Snow has piled up in drifts outside and Finn has to go out and shovel it away from the door before he takes out the deliveries in the morning, so my customers can get in at all.  It’s still toasty and warm in the shop, which is now almost entirely filled with wintry selections.  Christmas is just a bare week away and people are sending small evergreen trees to each other’s offices for parties and spirit.  I have mistletoe hung up around the shop and a real festive garland roped around the windows.  It’s my favorite time of year.  Finn says that’s weird, since I own a flower shop.  Shouldn’t it be spring?  Maybe he’s right, but I love the festivity in the air.

The bells above the door jingle noisily.  I’m just about to close but one more customer won’t hurt.  The after-work rush has died down and the streets outside are as empty as the streets of New York ever get, even with the chill wind brushing everyone inside.  I look up and see Ben.  He’s scratching the back of his neck again and his cheeks are pink.  I straightened from where I’m tallying up what I’ll need for the next order and smile.

“Apology or loathing this time?” I ask.

He chuckles.  “Neither, actually,” he mutters.  “It occurs to me that I’ve probably been short changing you.  Very belatedly.  I’ve come equipped with a peace offering and whatever I owe you for the last three bouquets.”  He holds up the bag for a donut place down the street.  The owner, Rose, makes these gourmet donuts that melt in your mouth, topped with everything from cereal to bacon. 

I laugh.  He had been short-changing me a little, but it seemed so genuine that I didn’t mind.  The flower shop hadn’t been hurting, even in winter.  And I like his odd requests.  “I’ll take the donut, but we’re square.”

“Really, Rey, I know those bouquets must be worth more than $20, I’m just an idiot.  Let me make it up to you,” he insists.

I come around to the front of the counter instead of making him hand it over to me.  “Have you ever actually tasted one of these?” I ask him, holding up the bag.

“No, but I’ve heard they’re really good,” he answers.  “Please…”

“Then, you can split it with me.”  I hop up on the counter and pat the empty space next to me.  “You can’t miss them.  They’re way too good.”

He hesitates for a moment and I can tell that he’s torn over whether he should insist again on paying me.  I pat the counter again, adamant.  Ben finally sits next to me.  He doesn’t even have to jump to get onto the counter.  It’s not a very wide counter and our shoulders are pressed right next to each other. 

“I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got the caramel one,” he says, his cheeks still pink.

I smell the treat before I liberate it from the bag.  “Then, you must be one hell of a guesser, Ben, because that’s my favorite.”

I split the donut roughly in half and give him the other part.  He waits until I take the first bite of mine before stuffing half of his in his mouth.  I can tell by the expression in his eyes that it’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted.  I think Rose has better donuts than I do flowers.  His second bite leaves caramel on his nose and I point it out to him, laughing.  He gathers it on the tip of one finger and licks it off.  Rose knows what she’s about and so she puts those wet cloths in the bags, the kind they have at barbeque places.  It cleans off my fingers admirably.

“You missed some,” I tell him, still laughing. 

“Where?”  He wipes the wrong side of his nose.

“Here.”  I tap the other side.  He finally gets it. 

I suddenly realize how close we are, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the humid heat of the flower shop, turned towards each other.  He glances up and I realize that we’re sitting directly under a cluster of mistletoe, which honestly is all I need at this point.  Ben looks back at me with a big, goofy grin.

“Mistletoe?  Really?”  He raises his eyebrows at me.

Red rushes up to the roots of my hair.  “What?  It’s a flower shop!  It adds to the ambiance.”

“Well…”  He leans in and my heart leaps into my throat.  He must be joking.  He’s going to pull back any moment and laugh at me.  Or he’s going to mock me some more about hanging mistletoe in my flower shop.  Or he’s going to…

…kiss me.

The first touch of his lips makes me suddenly very glad I bothered to hang mistletoe this year.  I’m not sure I’ve sold anything extra because of it, but I did get a truly spectacular kiss from Ben, the guy who comes into my shop asking for a flower arrangement to say, ‘fuck you’.  And so, I decide, it’s more than worth it.

Because Ben is a really good kisser.  His hand goes into my hair and I’ve twined myself around him without even realizing it.  His tongue slides over mine.  It takes my sluggish brain about five whole minutes to realize that we’re making out on the counter of my still very open and visible shop.  It might not be great for business.

I pull away at that thought, although every fiber of my being protests against the action.  Especially when Ben stills.

“Um,” I try to gather the ragged scraps of my thoughts.  “I have to close my shop.”

“Oh, right.  Yeah, right, of course.  Sorry.”  He runs a hand through his hair, which I’ve mussed, and slides off the counter.  He won’t look at me anymore.  I feel a sudden rush in my stomach, as if I’m going to be sick.  I’ll never see him again.  He’ll walk out that door and I’ll never see him again.

“Ben.”  I grab his hand to keep him from leaving and his eyes finally meet mine.  “I mean, there are windows everywhere.”  I gather what little courage I have.  “But I live right upstairs.  And I’d rather take this there…if that’s okay with you.”

The tension eases out of him at once and he’s back to his flustered but genuine self.  “I, uh, yeah.  Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good,” I say and slide off the counter too.  “Hang on.”

I hurry into the back of my shop to put away the things I’d been working on earlier.  Ben saunters around the front of my shop inspecting the flowers and poking at the little Christmas trees, as if they’re not real.  I stash my apron and gloves and wash my hands for good measure before returning to the front.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, but I shake my head and grab my bag from where it’s stashed under the counter.

“No, I’m ready.”

He holds the door open for me and the bitter wind pelts my exposed legs as I turn to lock up behind me.  The skirt that only falls to mid-thigh was definitely not the best choice this morning, considering the sub-freezing temperatures.  I tuck my coat and scarf tighter around me.  It’s not far to my apartment and so humid in the flower shop that I tend to dress unseasonably when I’m just going to work.  My chilled knees make me regret it as I climb the stairs to my third story apartment, Ben trailing just behind. 

I feel his hand on my elbow as my frozen fingers fumble with the keys.  “You must be freezing.”  God, he’s so close.  I can practically feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Not really,” I attempt to say, but the shaking of my voice belies the point.

Just as I twist the doorknob, I bite my lip.  “Uh, you’re alright with dogs, right?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer.  A low ball of white and orange comes barreling out the door and straight into Ben’s knees.  I manage to catch the rotund corgi before he can go sprinting down the stairs and off into the winter night.

“BB!”  My chastising does little to quiet the dog’s excitement.  Ben doesn’t seem to mind.  He’s down on one knee scratching BB’s ears.  “Get inside!”

The dog finally complies, but only because Ben does too.  We all huddle in the entranceway to my small flat since BB refuses to let him move another inch.  He only gets distracted from Ben and his tempting belly rubs when I offer him his favorite bone.  He moves to his bed to munch contentedly.  I shed my coat and boots, leaving a small trail of snow by the door.  Ben follows suit and kicks off his shoes.

And now I don’t know what to do.  Knotting my hands together doesn’t seem to help much either.  Looking around my apartment, I realize this might not have been the best idea.  A basket of unfolded laundry sits abandoned by the threadbare couch and at least three dishes have piled up in my sink.  A stack of books is close to teetering over and upending the careful mess on my coffee table.  It’s not exactly the place to bring a guy.  Especially a guy like Ben who, I have to hope, might not vanish at the stroke of midnight.

I turn back to him and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.  “Do you…uh, do you want anything?  Water?  I might have some wine?”

He grins a little, more at ease than I am.  Like the bad host I am, I hope he says no.  He’s standing so close, within reach.  His eyes dart down to my lips.  Before I can make a move, he leans down and kisses me again.  The thrill rockets down my spine.  Somehow, we make it away from the door and to the couch.  His knees hit it without warning and he sits down hard, half-pulling me with him.  I slide onto his lap, knees framing his hips, and he looks up at me like I’m something divine.

“God, Rey,” he says into my neck, his tongue sliding behind his kisses against my skin.  He sucks a bruise into my collarbone that makes me shiver.

His lips find mine again.  The rush of warmth that follows replaces the goosebumps from the cold with something totally different.  I lean into this new heat that prickles my scalp and makes my stomach drop out.  His hands are on my waist and I’m conscious of every movement in my hips, every time I brush against his lap.  The kisses are wonderful, fantastic, but I’m craving more.  _More._

He seems to follow my train of thought.  My shirt is untucked from my skirt and his hands ghost up the bare skin of my sides.  I can’t help the sigh that tumbles from my mouth to his.  His fingers paint trails of fire behind them.  I find the hem of his shirt and tug it up until he gives up and lets me pull it off him.  The black ink of a tattoo stands out against his chest and it reminds me briefly how little I know of him, but I’m distracted by the lines of his chest and abs, the V disappearing into his jeans.  Ben’s always been attractive, but I wouldn’t have bet on him being so _muscular._

He inches the fabric of my shirt up until I raise my arms to let it slide over my head.  His lips are back on my skin before the fabric has cleared my vision, kissing a line down my throat and onto the red blooming across my chest.  His deft hands unsnap my bra and discard it somewhere near our forgotten shirts.  It’s torture, the lines his hands draw on my back, my stomach, against the curve of my breast, anywhere besides where I want them.  A small, unbidden sound leaves me when his hand finally engulfs my breast.  His mouth closes around the nipple, his teeth apply just the right pressure, and my hands tighten in his hair. 

He’s going to be the death of me, I swear.

“Ben,” I manage.  I want to tell him to fuck me in a way that is not at all passive aggressive, but the words won’t come out. 

“Patience, love,” he says into my skin, his chest rumbling against mine and his hands dropping to my knees, tracing the sensitive skin behind them.  They curl inward and up, towards where my skirt has inched up my thighs.  His fingers don’t stop when they reach the line of my skirt but continue uninterrupted, leaving chills in their wake.  He stops short of the heat radiating from my center, though.  I can feel the awkwardness of the angle suddenly and the tightness of my skirt.

Ben doesn’t seem to mind.  He shifts us both with a deliberate motion and before I’m truly aware of his intentions, I’m lying on my back spread across the couch.  He traces the line of my leg again, starting from the calf, and I swear I’m going to kick him if he doesn’t hurry up at least a little.  He chuckles at what he sees on my face.  His hands finally reach my knickers, not the dampness that’s all that’s standing between me and him, but the waistline, tracing it with painful care and slowness.  I lift my hips and he tugs the scrap of fabric down to my knees in one quick jerk.  They’re cast aside with one more.

I should be self-conscious over how I’m spread for him, my skirt still on, but I’m not.  Especially when he wastes no time in drawing his hand up and finally pressing his fingers into my warmth. 

And, _God_ , he’s good at this too.  Why the hell did I wait this long?  Why the hell didn’t I shut down my shop early the first time I ever set eyes on him?  Maybe the build-up made it better.  He coaxes sounds out of me that I didn’t know I could make.  He reads my every gasp like a manual.  Then, he starts kissing a line up my thigh and _fuck_ that would be even better.  Except my stupid, tight skirt is still in the way.

Ben solves that problem quickly by getting his hands under my ass and pulling my skirt down to join my discarded knickers.  I reach for his jeans, but he ducks out of my reach with a devious grin…and between my legs. 

I’m grateful that he doesn’t try to make me beg for it, because I’m so far gone that I would in a heartbeat.  His mouth is on me before I even can process it and it doesn’t take long before I’m coming on his tongue, shattering beneath the grip he has on my waist.  He deserts his post between my legs and eases up my body, stroking my hips until I come back to my senses, but I really don’t want him to take things slow right now.

“Ben,” I level him with the most searing gaze I can manage.  “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t look surprised.  He lets out a low, wrecked laugh and doesn’t fight me when my hands go to the button of his jeans.  Even with my fumbling, it takes all of a minute for his jeans and boxers to join my discarded clothes somewhere on the floor.  BB whines from somewhere in the apartment, but I barely hear him.  My eyes are trained somewhere else.

Because Ben, to put it mildly, is _huge_.  I can’t resist touching him as soon as his clothes are off and he hisses at the contact.  A few strokes is all I get before he stops me with a gentle hand on my wrist.  I look up to see his face screwed up in concentration.  The expression is adorably endearing.

“If you keep doing that,” his voice comes out rough and strained.  “I won’t be able to fulfill your request.”

His words send the heat rushing down my spine again.  “Do you have a condom?”

He scrambles for his discarded jeans and pulls one out.  It takes an achingly long time for him to roll it on, although it’s probably only a few seconds.  His hands feel huge on my shoulders as he pushes me down onto the couch again and places himself between my legs.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

“Fuck, yes, Ben, please.  Hurry up.”

He obeys and pushes in slowly, probably afraid that his size will hurt.  There’s a stretch, but it’s not unbearable, and I find myself wishing he’d just go faster.  He finally bottoms out and we both gasp. 

“Are you alright?” he grits out, placing light kisses on my lips, along my jaw.

“Move, dammit,” is all I can manage.

He gladly does so, pulling out and pushing in again.  He sets an agonizing pace that lets me feel every last inch of him.  “God, Ben, faster.”

He obliges.  I can feel another orgasm building again, especially when he finds that spot inside of me.  He reaches between us to rub at my clit again, spurring me on.  “Rey,” he gasps.  “Come for me, Rey.”

I do, arching my back and nearly screaming as my orgasm crashes over me.  I feel him stiffen and spill inside of me, his lips coming to rest at my neck.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers into my skin.  He slides out of me and we both sigh at the loss of contact.  Ben pulls back a little.  “Give me a bit and we can go again.”  He winks.  And then suddenly flushes red.  “I mean, I can leave…”  It’s obvious he doesn’t want to.

“Oh, no.  You’re not going anywhere,” I ease his fears at once and he grins at me. 

It’s true.  He doesn’t go anywhere for the rest of the night.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst before the eventual happy ending...just what every Reylo fan needs!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you to everyone who has commented/bookmarked/left kudos/just read this damn thing so far! Here's the (not) much awaited second part to the story. I promise I'll respond to comments when work slows down a bit, but I do appreciate them oh, so much :)

I’ve seen Ben five times in the last month and only four of those have involved sex.  One of them contained him showing up unexpectedly at my flower shop and taking me out to coffee.  A real date, he’d insisted, and looked a little hurt when I’d reminded him that we’d been sleeping together for three weeks at that point.  I have his number programmed into my phone now, so he doesn’t actually have to show up at the shop unexpectedly, but he does anyway.

And I kind of like that.

I hum to myself as I flit around the shop, gathering the bouquets I need for the wedding this weekend.  Now that the Christmas and New Years season has ended, the weddings have died down.  At least, I’ve gone from having two or three booked every weekend to just one.  And this one I’m excited about because I actually know the bride.

Not that I get to stay for the wedding itself, but I’m not upset about that either.

Speak of the devil.  I pick up the phone as it rings.

“Phasma,” I say into the phone before she can even answer.  “I’ll have them there on time, don’t worry.”

She huffs a huge sigh.  “God, Rey, I wish you were my wedding planner.  You’re the most organized of the bunch and you’re the _flowers_.  Why can’t my caterer be this organized?  Why can’t my venue be this organized?  I’m going insane here.  Oh, but I’m really calling because my future mother-in-law AKA the devil incarnate is insisting on having a bouquet too, which means my mother needs a bouquet, so it doesn’t look weird…basically, dear, do you have the flowers to add two more bouquets?”

“I hate weddings,” Phasma adds as I head to the back to check my stores.  I laugh to myself.  Phasma and I met at a three-week university class I took in the fall for business management and hit it off.  I’d never really figured out why she was there.  She came from old money, although she’d done an admirable job of making her own way in the world.  We’d become friends too late for me to gain an invitation to her wedding but early enough that she’d hired me to do her flowers instead.

“I have plenty, Phas,” I say as I confirm what I already knew.  “Two more won’t be a problem.”

“Bless you, Rey.  God, if my mom hadn’t already filled the venue to the brim, I’d get you an invitation.”  She sighs heavily.  “This wedding isn’t mine.  And I have the perfect guy to set you up with.  He’s a little, y’know, brooding, but you guys would get along great and…”

“Phas,” I say before she can run off with the idea and try to set us up in the few minutes I’ll be present at the venue.  “I’m seeing someone.  I told you.”

“Yeah,” she huffs.  “Yeah, I know.  You two would just be so _great_.  Just…you’ll let me know if this guy doesn’t work out, right?  Not that I’m rooting for it to fail.  Not at all.”

“Of course not, Phas.”  I roll my eyes.  “Don’t you have better things to do?  Like work on your wedding planning?”

“It’s all planned.  Or what passes for planned with my imbecile of a wedding planner.  I swear, Rey, you should go into the business.  I could get you, like, a hundred clients right away.  I have to attend way too many weddings in the next year.”

Truth be told, I have thought about expanding the business into wedding planning, but the whole thing just seems so stressful and I have a good business going already. 

“So, basically,” she continues.  “All I have to do is sit around and worry.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her even though it’s futile.  “Just think.  Tomorrow you get to marry Hux, regardless of how much your mother tries to blow up your wedding.”

“You’re right,” she sighs.  “Yeah, you’re right.  I get to marry Hux.  Nothing else really matters.  Thanks, Rey.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The January day dawns painfully cold but mercifully clear.  I think Phasma picked the end of January just to spite her mother.  December is nice, with the cheer of Christmas in the air and the fresh snowbanks.  January is when the snow turns to ice and grayish slush.  Maybe Phasma’s family paid off the weatherman.  Maybe the wealthy really do have all the luck.  The snow on the ground is a recent, perfect white and her venue looks out over Central Park with a fresh layer of snow covering the gardens.

In short, it’s beautiful.

When Phasma and I had discussed the wedding, I’d thought yellow and gray an odd choice for a winter wedding but seeing it all laid out, I agree with her selections.  The flowers Finn and I bring upstairs make me laugh a little, though.  Yellow carnations.  I’ll have to text Ben when I get out of here and tell him that I took yellow carnations to a wedding.  Maybe he’ll remember that they were one of the flowers I put in his original hate bouquet.  Yellow carnations for disappointment.  I won’t tell Phasma that, although she’ll probably make some crack about being disappointed in her own wedding.

We step into the elevator with our dolly of bouquets and floral arrangements for the table.  Hundreds…no, thousands of flowers, I’m sure.  I’d delivered some of the largest pieces with Finn yesterday, so the venue could set them up, but I wanted the arrangements for the main tables to be fresh and I have to deliver the bouquets today anyway.

A crisp attendant directs us to a table where we can lay out the bouquets and boutonnieres for the wedding party.  I have them all neatly labeled so no one gets confused and swipes the bride’s bouquets or the mothers’.  Finn disappears, leaving me to do my job and deal with the wedding party itself.  I’m dressed for the occasion.  He had to deal with the messier ordeal of getting the arrangements out and is not.

I pluck a few less than perfect petals from the bouquets and wait for my signal.  Excitement bubbles up in me even though I won’t get to witness my friend’s actual wedding.  It’s still nice to be a part of it, something I’ve told her too many times to count.

“Rey?” someone asks.  I turn and see Ben.  He’s dressed in a gray suit, his black hair combed neatly, and the sight of him in a suit does something in my chest.

“Ben?  What are you doing here?”  I meet him where he’s taken a few steps towards me, confusion on his face.  He glances back at the table full of flowers and his expression clears.

“I’m the best man,” he says.  I remember him telling me that he’s going to be tied up at a wedding on Saturday, but it had just never occurred to me that it would be the _same_ wedding.  It startles a laugh out of me.  “No need to ask why you’re here, I guess.”

“Phasma’s a friend,” I explain.  Something crosses his face.  “I don’t merit an invitation, though.”

“Ugh, don’t bring that up again.”  I turn and see Phasma in her full wedding dress.  She has only one of her too many bridesmaids with her.  The maid of honor, I presume, also wearing a soft gray dress.  She holds out her arms and I give her the lightest hug I can manage.  “The flowers look great, Rey.  But more importantly, you two know each other?”

“Yeah, Ben and I…” I start to explain.  I don’t get to finish.

“Ben!” someone calls.  “ _There_ you are.  I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I turn to face the newcomer, willing myself to keep a hold on my jealousy.  Ben probably knows lots of people at Phasma’s wedding.  He’s in it, after all.  I manage to reason myself out of my emotions for a total of thirty seconds before I see Ben’s face and the woman who has wrapped herself around him.  That’s not a fair assessment.  She’s twined her arm through his, though, and my chest suddenly feels too small.  Because Ben won’t meet my eyes and he looks guilty.

The whole thing would be easier, I tell myself, if the woman holding onto Ben was sappy and drunk and obviously a bimbo.  But she is tall, statuesque even, gorgeous, and refined in a way I have never been.  Ben hasn’t overtly mentioned that his parents are wealthy.  Based on the trips he’s taken and the college he went to, I assumed they had at least some extra money.  But he runs in Phasma’s social circle, which is lightyears away from my own, and now he has this woman wearing diamonds on his arm like a piece of art. 

It all hits me suddenly and I feel the weight of how stupid I’d been.  What was I thinking, giving so much away to a man who had wandered into my shop one day looking for flowers?  What did I think would come of this?  No, he’s probably engaged to this woman who fits his standing and I was just a bit of fun.  Tears prick my eyes, but I will them away.

“Ben came into my shop one day,” I finish for Phasma.  She seems to accept that and doesn’t press any further. 

The woman looks between us.  “You must be the florist.  Phasma’s told me you’re friends.  I’m Rebecca.”  She holds out a hand and I manage to shake it and introduce myself as Rey without ripping her arm off.  I don’t really feel anything at all, just numb.

The bridal party trickles out and I start handing out bouquets.  That job is easier.  I know flowers.  I know far too much about flowers.  Part of me wishes I didn’t, because then when a hot guy came into my shop asking for a bouquet of flowers to say ‘fuck you’ I could have told him I didn’t know how.  The bridesmaids and Phasma disappear before the rest of the groomsmen and the groom arrive.  So, does Rebecca.  I’m never alone with Ben, even though he clearly wants to take me aside to say something.

“Not now,” I hiss at him when he tries, and he stops.  _Not ever_ , is what I think to myself.  I don’t want his excuses.

I pin the boutonnieres on one by one.  The groomsmen filter off in pairs or alone to find their spots as I do so.  I want to know if Ben remembers the yellow carnation.  I look up at him as I pin the carnation to his chest.  He stares down at the flower and, when he meets my eyes, I see the understanding there.

_Good_ , I think at him viciously, though it gives me no satisfaction. 

Yellow carnations have never felt so appropriate.

           

Ben calls around ten, but I’m halfway through a bottle of wine and I don’t answer.  He leaves five messages.  I check none of them.  The wine is the only thing that allows me to fall asleep that night.  He’s left three more messages by morning, but I still don’t check them.  I drag myself out of bed and mix Finn’s hangover remedy before I go into work.  At least Sundays are slow.  I might get five customers all day and that suits me just fine today. 

It’s gotten warm enough that rain beats down against my windows and washes away the crisp snow from yesterday.  It makes me sad, for some reason.  I manage to keep the umbrella steady over my head as I fumble for my keys and unlock the door.  Even the flower shop seems dull today.

I ignore two calls before lunch, which I don’t take either.  My book fails to distract me adequately.  Maybe they sense my foul mood, but I get no customers all morning.  My phone rings again and I pick it up to see the contact, just in case it happens to be someone other than Ben.  An absurd picture of Phasma in a tight gold dress stares back at me.  I click the green button.

“Phas, is everything alright?” I say at once.  She’s supposed to be on her honeymoon today, not calling me at two in the afternoon.

“No. It. Is. Not,” she emphasizes each word.

“What happened?  Didn’t you enjoy the wedding?”  Oh god, what if I had messed the flowers up in my distraction?

“Oh, the wedding was actually great.  Too gaudy and not my taste at all.  Oh, and my flight’s been delayed, so we’re actually leaving tomorrow,” she says in a rush.  I start to sympathize, but Phasma cuts me off.  “And my best man moped through half the wedding and left at, like, nine.”

I freeze.  I’m going to doubly kill him if he ruined Phasma’s wedding too.  But right now, it seems, she doesn’t know anything about our relationship and I’m not going to break the news to her.  “What a stick in the mud,” I say instead.

“Rey,” Phasma continues in a tone that betrays how much she knows.  “What happened?”

Damn.  “Nothing,” I say.

“Rey, it’s my wedding.  Tell me.  Something happened between you and Ben last night.  And it’s more than just recognizing some guy who came into your shop once.”

“He came into my shop multiple times,” I hedge.

“Dammit, Rey, don’t make me pull it out of him.”

Part of me screams that she should definitely go and hound Ben about this instead of me, but Phasma’s my friend.  And she’s right on some level.  It is her wedding.  “Ben was the guy I was seeing,” I tell her finally.

Phasma lets out a muffled squeal.  “He was the guy I was going to set you up with!”  And then, silence.  “Wait…was?  Past tense?  You _were_ seeing him?”  Realization dawns on her through my silence.  “Oh, shit.  Rebecca.  That’s what happened last night.”

I feel the tears pricking my eyes again.  “Yeah, so, there you go.  That’s why your best man was moping.  Sorry.”

Phasma’s voice softens.  “Rey, I think you should talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to that bastard.  He should figure that out soon.  If he thinks you’re going to convince me when his fifteen fucking messages haven’t…”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Phasma interrupts my angry rant.  “I haven’t spoken to Ben, Rey.  I knew he left like two messages, but I know nothing about the other thirteen.  I just know Ben and his history.  He’s a good guy, Rey, not the type to cheat on you.”

“I guess you don’t know him that well, then,” I mutter.

“Maybe not, but he’s Hux’s best friend.  Who’s my husband!  Sorry, anyway, he’s Hux’s best friend and I know for a fact that he’s never even ditched on a bad date.  The guy’s legit.” 

The bells over the door chime halfway through her speech, but I can’t bring myself to look up yet.  “I don’t know what happened last night, but you should at least talk to him or you’re going to regret it,” she reasons.  I hate how sensible she sounds right now.

“Hang on, I have a customer…” my voice trails off as I look up and see that I do not, in fact, have a customer.  Instead, I have a very nervous-looking Ben Solo in my shop holding a bouquet of flowers.

“It’s Ben, isn’t it?” Phasma asks.  “Good.  Just _talk_ to him for, like, a minute before you throw him out.  Please, Rey.”

“Alright,” I assure her, although I can’t bring my voice above a whisper.  “I’ll talk to him.  Bye, Phas.”

I hang up and the silence hangs in the air like fog.  Like the mist that clouds all the windows in my shop and makes the outside world seem far away and hazy.  Ben just looks at me for a minute as if deciding where to start.

“Does that mean you’ll talk to me?” he asks finally when it becomes clear that I’m not going to speak first.

“I’m still deciding,” I bite out.  He flinches at my tone.  My eyes flicker to the bouquet he’s holding.  “Don’t you know it’s bad form to bring flowers to a flower shop?”

He glances down at them and his brow knots together.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I figured.  But it felt too awkward to get them here.”  He takes a few steps closer.  “And I needed a bouquet that would say ‘I’m really fucking sorry’.”  He stops farther from the counter than he usually stands and holds out the flowers.  “How did I do?”

I look down at the blooms in his hand.  Purple hyacinths and marigolds for grief and…primroses.  My breath takes a long time making it to my lungs.  Primroses mean _I can’t live without you_.  And among them, one solitary sprig of forget-me-nots.  Yes, it conveys what he wanted it to.

I can’t take my eyes off it.  “But…Rebecca…”

He sighs, and I see him run his hand through his hair out of the corner of my eye.  “It was so stupid.  I just needed a date to that goddamn wedding.  Phasma pestered me about it for weeks.”  I look up at him finally.  There’s sorrow on his face.  “It was before I’d even met you.  No, that’s not true, but I’d only come in that one time…I wanted to ask you instead.  I only asked her because she hasn’t been subtle about her interest and I knew she’d say yes and then problem solved.  She’s not bad, I just don’t feel anything for her…”

His eyes finally meet mine.  “The truth is, Rey, I feel like such a fucking idiot.  I…I really like you and I want something real between us.  I asked her to the wedding before you came into the picture and then I felt like I couldn’t back out of it.  I know I fucked up.  I know you don’t have any reason to give me a chance.  But I’m asking anyway.”

I move around the counter, so the bloody thing isn’t blocking up all the space between us.  He watches me as I do, still holding that bouquet.  I reach up and pull the forget-me-not from the center of it.  “Forget-me-nots are more than just liking someone.”

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes intense.  “They are.”

I look down again at the bouquet full of sorrow and apologies, then back up at him.  I stretch up on my toes, so I can pull him down into a long kiss.  He tosses the bouquet somewhere on my counter.  When I pull away years later, he looks somewhat dazed.

“You owe me a proper date,” I say, and he flushes scarlet.  “And a better bouquet.”

“Yeah?” he grins.  “Why’s that?”

I grin to match his.  “Because that’s the fucking ugliest bouquet I’ve ever seen.”

The next time he brings me flowers, it’s a single peony and he’s down on one knee with hope on his face.  I say yes.


End file.
